


À votre guise

by DeVereWinterton



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Baudelaire, Drunken Shenanigans, Enivrez-vous, F/M, First Time, It's French, Oral Sex, there's alcohol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-06-11 22:29:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15325794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeVereWinterton/pseuds/DeVereWinterton
Summary: Phryne and Jack help themselves to some drinks. As with everything Phryne, things get overdone.Ceci n'est pas une histoire crédible. But it’s fun.





	À votre guise

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea what happened here. I read some Baudelaire, got caught up in a poem about getting drunk and well, here we are, I guess. The poem is called ‘Enivrez-vous’, the original can be found [here](http://www.bacdefrancais.net/enivrez-vous-baudelaire.php). I translated some of it and wove it into the fic. The title of this fic means something along the lines of ‘As you wish’. Definitely takes place during the second half of season 3, let’s say... after a more successful attempt at dinner? Salut.
> 
> Beta'd by 221A_brina, so any remaining mistakes are mine.

 

“Jack.” A low murmur, barely audible, as his nibbling on her earlobe distracted her rather splendidly. “Jack, you’re drunk,” she managed, softly pushing at his chest without any serious intent as his warm, wet tongue laved at the sensitive spot right below her ear.

His one hand was almost fisted in the dark strands of her hair, cradling her head in his large palm, his other hand rested on her hip, his fingers flexing impatiently and digging into her thigh as if unsure of what his next move was to be, still leaving some – albeit very little – space between their heated bodies.

“So are you,” he grunted accusingly against the hollow of her throat.

It was true. Briefly looking over his shoulder she spotted an empty bottle of wine, and an equally empty whiskey decanter. They _were_ drunk, and she was basking in the _libération_ of it all.

He was leaving open-mouthed kisses in his wake, sometimes suckling, sometimes merely breathing on her heated flesh. Her skin burned wherever he touched her. His usually low voice had taken on an even darker _timbre_ – no doubt due to the amount of alcohol he had imbibed. It got underneath her dermis, stroked along her sensitive tissues and tore an answering, primal rumble from deep within her core.

“On virtue, Inspector?” She leaned her head back against his hand and the teal wall of her private parlour where he had her pinned – quite deliciously – with the weight of his body.

She had kicked off her shoes as they sipped their after-dinner drinks. He had loosened his tie as they played draughts. She had placed her feathered fascinator on the mantel as she poured them yet another drink, emptying the decanter. He’d lost his jacket during their clumsy stumble from the chaise to the door when he announced it was about time he ought to head on home.

They had never made it through said door.

“Now is not the time to start questioning my chastity, Miss Fisher,” he admonished, drunk on the taste of her skin, and she was about to retaliate with a witty remark when he started pulling the thin strap of her dress down her shoulder _with his teeth_.

Her chest was heaving with barely suppressed arousal, excitement and surprise.

_He couldn’t have known, could he?_

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Jack. You know I’d never allow myself to be lustfully compromised during such a _thorough_ investigation,” she panted as his teeth scraped her ivory skin, marking her. 

He was breathing heavily against her collarbone, almost mesmerized by the sight of her dress slipping down her chest on the one side, the other side still held up by the dainty strap.

She was about to slip her arm out of the strap to free her breast to his hungry gaze, but he was having none of that. He almost reverently cupped her clothed breast through the satin of her dress as he breathed on her nipple, brushing over the puckered bud with the rough pad of his thumb.

She inhaled sharply through her teeth.

“Jack?” she whimpered, squirming against him as he pinched her nipple between his thumb and forefinger and increased the pressure on her tortured flesh. Her hips moved restlessly as he attempted to keep her still with his hand on her buttock, her body seeking his, wanting to feel him hard, hot and heavy against her moist centre. She settled for pulling him closer to her breast with a hand in his now unruly curls, the other clutching at his broad shoulder.

“Hmmm?” She could feel the vibrations of his voice against the swell of her breast, and it stirred something deep within her, seeing him cradled so intimately against her bosom.

“Will you remember any of this in the morning?”

“Probably not,” he rumbled in a somewhat slurred voice.

“How wonderful!”

“Is it?”

“Of course it is, Jack. It means I get to do all of the _delicious_ things I plan on doing to you a second time, but it will feel as though it’s my first time doing them.”

“Now, Miss Fisher, I think we both know that’s simply not true,” he quipped, and she tightened the hand in his hair in fierce reprimand for his cheekiness – although she couldn’t stop her lips from twitching in amusement at his gall. She lowered her hands to his shoulders to pull him up.

He had the audacity to glare at her for pulling his hair as he straightened to claim her mouth in a sweet, yet very promising kiss. The sharp, tangy taste of alcohol on his tongue was addictive. She busied herself with undoing the buttons on both his waistcoat and shirt, becoming impatient and wanting to feel his skin. She almost let out a frustrated sob when she discovered he wore an undershirt as well.

He chuckled and she could feel his exuberance against her lips.

“How will I know you won’t flee from my bed like you did the last time, Inspector? Nerve tonic notwithstanding,” she asked him breathlessly when their lips parted, their foreheads pressed together, her fingers almost insecurely plucking at the cotton of his singlet.

“You will have to ask the wind.”

She frowned exaggeratedly (and rather adorably, in his opinion) in intoxicated confusion, furrowing her brow and scrunching up her delicate nose.

“The wind, Jack?”

The one corner of his mouth curled upwards in a lopsided smile, and his suddenly dark blue eyes glittered. The smirk tugging at his lips tugged at her heartstrings, pulling them tighter around her heart, causing it to skip a beat.

“Yes, the wind,” he repeated as he kissed the top of her head endearingly. “And the wave,” he whispered in her ear, licking the shell and daringly stroking the fragile arch of her collarbone. Her breath stuttered. 

She vaguely recognized he was quoting someone, but her hazy, drunken mind couldn’t quite recall who or what. Frankly, she had other priorities to concern herself with.

“The star,” he rumbled as a lone finger traced a path over the fabric from her sternum, pausing between her breasts before moving down towards her abdomen and cheekily dipping his finger into her belly button, stretching the fabric.

Instead of admonishing him, she giggled like a lovesick schoolgirl but found she was too deliciously inebriated to care. She felt his smile against her cheek.

“The bird.” He fingered the swallow brooch attached to side of her dress that was still held up by the strap, then moved the other strap back onto her shoulder, teasing her with his insufferable patience. She let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding, enraptured by his unusual methods at seduction.

“And the clock,” he finished.

She trailed her fingers down his sleeve to stroke his wristwatch, before raising her eyes to meet his unfathomable ones. She realised he was savouring this, savouring her, taking his time and luxuriating in it.

“And what happens next, Jack?” she purred, not sounding half as seductive or as demanding as she’d intended, wound too tight from his ministrations.

A look of mischief briefly passed over his features, so fleeting, in fact, she almost thought she’d imagined it.

“Next, Miss Fisher, you’ll have to ask everything that flees,” he said, emphasizing his point by gently grabbing her by the hips and pulling her closer to his lean frame.

She came willingly, clasping her hands behind his neck, exploring the velvety texture of the short hairs at his nape with her fingertips.

He leaned into her, pressing his hips into hers for the first time and there was no mistaking his evident desire for her.

She gasped, part surprise at his boldness and part restrained arousal, about to break free. She pushed back against him, aligning their hips so she could feel him, needy and pressing against the juncture of her thighs. She undulated her pelvis, and he groaned whilst she stifled a moan of her own, sinking her teeth into her bottom lip.

“And everything that groans,” he huffed, a laugh escaped him on his next exhale. “Everything that moves.” He buried his face in her hair and sucked on her pulse point.

This time, she couldn’t stop a throaty moan from escaping her and he pressed himself against her even more firmly, grinding his clothed cock against her cunt, eliciting wanton gasps from her. His increasingly relentless thrusts a clear indication of how he longed to be with her, inside her womanly wickedness, inside her brilliant mind.

“Jack,” she mewled as his hands came up to fondle her clothed breasts (but she might as well have been naked for the sensations he was provoking) and pinched her sensitive nipples, the sensual material of the dress creating a wonderful friction on her sensitized skin. His movements were becoming less controlled but increasingly fevered.

“Everything that sings and everything that speaks,” he breathed against her lips, effectively silencing her, their laboured breaths intermingling as if reaching an _impasse_.

She was burning, her insides having turned into molten lava, about to collide with the heat of her feverish skin.

“You will have to ask them what time it is, Phryne.” His voice was tense, barely restrained as his hands reached for the hem of her black satin dress and started rucking it up to her hips.

“And what time is it, Jack?” she breathed, curiosity barely overriding the need to take him inside of her right then and there.

Evidently, Jack shared the sentiment, because before she could utter a single syllable, he got onto his knees in front of her, signalling she should take the dress from his hands and hold it up.

His gasp of surprise at finding her _sans lingerie_ was like music to her ears, although she was surprised she could even hear it over the sound of her blood, pounding viciously, thrumming through her veins.

His thumbs spread her open before him like a budding flower, and he breathed in her scent before nuzzling her damp, dark curls. Her knees buckled, but he was already there, steadying her with a firm hand on her hip.

With one hand she held up the dress, while the other found purchase in his hair, neither pushing nor pulling; his presence grounding her, the way it always had done.

His voice, when it came, was muffled and she could feel his lips on her lips as he spoke, right before sealing his mouth over her throbbing core.

“Miss Fisher, I believe it is the drinking hour.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> The poem Jack is quoting from is actually in French, which is why it sounds familiar to Phryne, but I like to think she prefers the original. My faith in Jack’s answer to the question ‘Parlez-vous français?’ is not that great, so he got stuck with English.
>
>> Always be drunk. Therein lies everything: it’s all that matters.  
> So as not to feel the dreaded burden of Time breaking your shoulders and crushing you to the earth, never stop drinking.  
> But what? Whether wine, poetry or virtue; the choice is yours/as you wish. Whatever: get drunk.  
> And if sometimes, on the palace steps, in the gutter’s green grass, or in the maudlin solitude of your room, you wake up, and the drunken haze has dwindled or gone,  
> then ask the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock; ask everything that flees, everything that groans, everything that moves, everything that sings, everything that speaks: ask them what time it is;  
> and the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, and the clock will all reply:  
> “It is the drinking hour.”  
> To escape the fate of those tormented slaves of Time, get drunk.  
> Drink deep, never ceasing.  
> Whether wine, poetry, or virtue, the choice is yours/as you wish.  
> 


End file.
